


Pacing the Cage

by lori (zakhad)



Series: Captain and Counselor [43]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-05
Updated: 2010-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-05 20:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zakhad/pseuds/lori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Picard and Crusher head back to Earth for the funeral of a mutual friend. While there are no abductions or random red alerts, it's certainly not much fun for anyone regardless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pacing the Cage

_Sometimes you feel like you've lived too long_  
Days drip slowly on the page  
You catch yourself  
Pacing the cage

~ Bruce Cockburn

~^~^~^~^~

 

"Another one," Beverly said, breaking the silence.

"Yes," Jean-Luc replied softly. He was deep in thought, had been since they'd left the _Enterprise_, and didn't turn to look at her. She studied his reflection in the viewport.

"I'd almost think I was getting old, except, I'm not."

He raised an eyebrow at that. One corner of his mouth rose slightly.

"People die all the time, for all kinds of reasons, after all," she added.

"We've known Kemper for years, Beverly. He died in his sleep."

"While suffering from a disease."

"That primarily afflicts the elderly."

"Oh, for -- " She swivelled the chair and punched his shoulder. "That you don't have!"

"How do you know that's what I was thinking about?" Smiling now, he turned his attention to her, leaning back in the chair.

"All right, what were you thinking about?"

"Not that."

"It's going to get crowded in here, between me, you and that smug yet idiotic grin of yours." She subsided and drew her ankle up, tucking it under her thigh. "We should've gotten a bigger shuttle."

"You should have thought of that before we left. We're just going as far as the nearest starbase. It won't be so bad."

"I suppose. There are certainly worse people I could be stuck in here with."

"Thanks. I think." He went back to staring at the monotonous view of white specks streaming past.

"You know what I mean."

"No, but that's quite all right. I'm not sure I want to know."

Beverly sighed and glared at the flickering status reports on the console in front of her. They spent another twenty minutes in silence, after which he went to the back of the small shuttle and returned wearing a different shirt. She contemplated possible reasons for the change. He noticed her quizzical look.

"Amy's parting gift smelled like half-digested milk."

"Was that what that was? I was about to ask what you had for lunch."

"The same thing you had."

Another silence, as he sat with crossed arms and she tried not to keep watching him. Finally she exhaled and sat up, putting both feet on the floor. "I feel terrible about this."

"This?"

"The funeral. Not actually calling him, or sending a letter, or visiting when I had a chance, or -- anything. It isn't as if I never thought about it."

"I know. But I don't think he would be angry that -- "

"It isn't that," she blurted. "It's me, angry at me. He was Wesley's godfather, Jack's friend, my friend, and I even kept up with him after Jack died. It was only after the last _Enterprise_ was destroyed that I fell out of contact. I shouldn't have."

"The last time I heard from him was last year. Before he slipped into a coma the first time." Jean-Luc raised his head, shifting in the chair to grip the ends of the arm rests. "He asked about you."

"And you didn't tell me then? It would have reminded me."

Jean-Luc stared out the viewport again, still not seeing what was really there. "I'm not sure why I didn't. He wasn't lucid. We'd been in contact off and on, a few times a year at most. He knew I had married, and I told him to whom, but in the last comm I got from him he asked how many children you and I had now."

"God." Beverly shook her head. "Well. Dementia isn't predictable. He might have remembered the truth minutes after he sent the message. What puzzles me is why he'd think that at all."

Jean-Luc gave her one of those level looks of his and said nothing.

"Shut up," she exclaimed.

Another twitch of an eyebrow. He crossed his arms again and slumped into the chair, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. Beverly tapped out songs she knew with her fingernails, picked at the hem of her uniform sleeves, watched more readouts, and finally gave in.

"So what were you thinking about earlier?"

"I have a colicky nine-month-old who hasn't slept more than three hours in a row for the past couple of months. I have a mother-in-law who's telepathic, who has lived down the hall for the past six weeks."

"Oh. I wasn't aware Lwaxana was aboard. Should I be thankful she didn't show up while I was there?"

"Probably. If anything, she's nosier than ever." He sighed, grimacing at the thought of his mother-in-law. "You would think that after all this time she might change."

"Sounds like Deanna has her hands full." Not being around to provide Tom with "necessary medical attention" while he bartered with a bunch of demanding aliens, who wanted everything for a bit of strategic information pertaining to the Randra Alliance, didn't weigh out quite the same on the scale of worries.

"Very much so."

He said nothing more, and since she had no desire to talk about the things she'd left behind, either, she let it go. Time crawled. She watched the chronometer slowly count off another five minutes, sixteen seconds, seventeen --

"I feel let down by the medical profession as a whole that there have been no great strides made in finding a long-term solution for a colicky baby."

"You mean other than persuading parents to try different formulas? She was breast-fed for six months -- why didn't Deanna keep doing that?"

"You didn't breast-feed Wesley."

"I was in medical school. I was under a lot of stress and it wasn't going to ease up -- not to mention my diet consisted of whatever I could inhale. It just wasn't going to work. But Deanna's not under a lot of stress for weeks and months at a time, she can sit down and actually eat, and she's right there. It's a totally different situation."

"I wasn't comparing, only pointing out that you have no practical experience with breast-feeding. I'll bet Wesley slept all night, too."

"Well, not until he was almost five months -- "

"And I'll bet you've never tried to tell a cranky woman to wake up at three hundred hours to let a baby chew on her again because a four-year-old left a stasis unit ajar and spoiled the last three bottles of breast milk we had."

Beverly decided there was no safe topic left and went to get a padd from her things. When she returned, he'd started to nod off. She decided not to ask for music and brought up one of her medical journals. He needed sleep, if the odd crankiness were any indicator.

~^~^~^~^~

 

The soft double-chirp woke Deanna immediately. She slipped off the bed carefully, hoping beyond all hope that this wouldn't wake Amy. The baby snuffled in her sleep. Moving toward the door, she heard the chirping again, before she could make it into the next room.

"Sir, there's a call from Captain Glendenning."

Deanna bit back a scolding and watched her daughter stir and yawn. "Lieutenant," she began softly.

A barely-audible chitter signified a connection she hadn't wanted him to make yet. "Dee," Tom cried.

Amy whimpered. "Lights," Deanna said, hurrying back to the bed and picking up the baby. "Tom?"

"I -- " Whatever he said was drowned out completely by Amy's first shriek-wail-hiccup.

"You'll have to repeat that," Deanna said while patting and bouncing and rocking the baby. Amy wasn't hungry or afraid, just upset at being awakened. She turned her face into Deanna's neck, depositing a combination of tears and slime on her mother's skin. "What time is it?"

"It's eighteen hundred or so -- I'm sorry if I woke the little nipper."

_That's all right, she never sleeps more than two hours, unless of course someone is about to call us and yell._ At about fifteen-twenty-four, she'd sent Yves off with his grandmother and brought Amy into the bedroom to hopefully persuade her to sleep instead of cry incessantly. Of course, now that everyone was elsewhere and all was quiet, someone would call. "What's wrong, Tom?" Amy sobbed and hiccuped, pushing her nose around to spread the slime as far up Deanna's neck as possible.

"Nothing. I just thought I'd call and see how everything's going."

"Bored already?" Deanna wrinkled her nose as Amy held out a green blob and stretched it between her fingers. But it was interesting enough to make her quit crying, so Deanna watched it carefully, ready to catch it before it went in her daughter's mouth. At least it was better than playing with the contents of her diaper.

"Well, not bored, just. . . . I miss her."

She would have rolled her eyes, if not for the pressing need to keep an eye on her daughter's stretchy prize. "Did you miss her this way the last time she beamed down on a mission, or went to a conference?"

"No, but what if she -- I mean, she's going to see a bunch of old friends at this thing, right? People she's known forever and so on. She might -- well -- "

Amy whimpered when Deanna finally used a hastily-grabbed tissue to swipe away her 'toy.' "Run off with someone not as neurotic as you?"

"No! Of course not! But you know how it is, when you meet someone from your past and start thinking about might-have-beens and where you are now."

Amy bubbled, coughed, and wailed, her body stiffly bending away from Deanna as she twisted and pushed at her mother's hands. "Tom, I'm sorry, but you have a counselor and I have a very fussy infant to deal with. You know she'll come back and everything will be fine."

A pause, filled by Amy's frustrated grunting and building up to another howl. "Yeah. You're right. Sorry I bothered you."

"Good night."

"Yeah. G'night." A single tone signaled the severing of the channel.

Amy took her time calming down. In the end, it took a bath with Mama to do it. At least splashing around kept her happy for a while. Deanna wrapped her in a bath towel, smiling at Amy to see her return it and taking a few minutes to play peek-a-boo with a corner of the towel.

"We're hoo-ooome," her mother sang out from two rooms away. Deanna put Amy on the floor to wrestle with the towel so she could put on clean clothes. As she pulled her shirt over her head, Lwaxana came into the bathroom. Deanna froze, the front of the shirt bunched in her hands.

"Didn't you go to the holodeck?"

"Yes, dear, we did -- I simply didn't feel like putting my clothes back on after the lovely mud bath we had. Oh, don't look like that! Jean-Luc isn't here to fuss about it, after all."

Deanna thought of all the corridors between holodeck four and her quarters -- two decks and two and a half sections apart from each other -- and how much traffic normally passed along them. "Mother, I hope you didn't let Yves do the same."

"Well, why not?"

"We want him to wear clothes -- it's been difficult enough getting him to stop taking them off in public! Please don't encourage him."

"Oh, look-at-yooou!" Lwaxana gushed, bending to smile down at Amy, who had crawled over to pull at Grandma's painted toenails. "Aren't you such a good little girl? Come to Grandmother, Amia!"

Amy sat up, lifted her chubby arms, and chortled. That pleased Lwaxana to no end. Swinging the baby up and settling her on her hip, Lwaxana cooed and swayed, kissing Amy's forehead.

"Would you take her to the nursery, Mother? Get her ready for bed while I -- "

"Of course!" Lwaxana was out the door almost before she finished interrupting.

Deanna rubbed her eyes, her temples, and leaned on the edge of the sink. There were things, she decided, that Jean-Luc would not hear about when he called. Perhaps when he actually got back to the ship, she'd tell him.

Perhaps after her mother left the ship, which would be about five days after he returned.

Perhaps next month.

~^~^~^~^~

 

Jean-Luc offered to carry her bag, but she shouldered it herself and thanked him just the same. They left the shuttle in one of the Starfleet shuttle bays and, having five hours to kill before their scheduled public transport left, they found a directory.

"I'm exhausted. Maybe I'll get a room." Beverly searched for the red sections, which usually denoted overnight accommodations.

Jean-Luc pointed. "There you go." The block of red under his fingertip had a tiny clock symbol in it, indicating rooms available by the hour, usually used for brief liaisons. There was a market for such a thing, so it existed.

"Oh, stop it!"

He raised an eyebrow. "I was only considering the cost. Five hours, by the hour, is less expensive than the other accommodations."

"Well, the. . . ." She couldn't claim it would be noisy. The soundproofing was probably more than adequate. "Never mind. There's a waiting area, I can read a book."

But on the way to that area, they passed a station information desk, and he stopped at it. Beverly meandered further on, watching passers-by, unsure of whether he would catch up or go his own way -- what was with this silent phase? The last hour and a half of their shuttle trip, he'd pretended to sleep. She had stared at the controls or out the viewport, unable to relax. When he did speak the result was terse, as if he'd only given the minimum required response. It probably had nothing to do with her -- what had she done other than try to talk to him?

"Come on," he announced from right behind her. She jumped, turned to reply, but he'd already finished catching up and grabbed her elbow as he strode along.

"All right, you don't have to drag me."

He let go and turned right down a side corridor. At the end of a twisting route he took a sudden left through a door, and for the first time she noticed the green object in his hand. When he tossed it on a table in the center of the room, she saw it was a passkey. In a moment of horror she stared at his back as he crossed the room to turn off the screen imitating a viewport looking out at space -- then she came back to reality.

"Why did you rent a room? I said -- "

"You said you were tired. Frankly, I don't care for sitting around a waiting area trying to be comfortable in those chairs. I have some things to do -- you can have the bed."

She considered objecting, but he'd gone to the comfortable-looking chair in the corner while he spoke, dropped his bag, and collapsed in the chair as if he needed the bed instead. The room itself wasn't half bad, just typical of mid-range rentals on starbases -- bland gray and black decor, standard issue everything. She let her bag slide to the floor, rolled her sore shoulder -- why had she packed so much? -- and sat on the end of the mattress with a bounce. At least it wasn't stiff. Falling back, she rubbed her tired eyes and massaged her temples.

She woke to being shaken by the shoulder. "Half an hour," Jean-Luc said. She blinked at him. He didn't stick around until her vision cleared completely; she slid to the edge of the bed to finish waking up. After he emerged from the bathroom, she stood, and in doing so realized he must have removed her shoes after she fell asleep. Not only that -- she'd been at the foot of the bed with her feet on the floor, and awakened curled up with her head on the pillow. And where was the clip she'd used to pull back her hair?

"You'd better hurry if you want a shower."

"No," she said. "I don't think so. Just let me wash my face."

They got to the transport with ten minutes to spare. Neither of them wore a uniform, so it surprised Beverly when a young man in the queue ahead of them whirled around and stared at them. He leaned to whisper to a girl -- young woman, Beverly supposed, but a girl to her.

Jean-Luc shot her a warning look and glanced down at himself. The long-sleeved dark green shirt hung loose on him; he'd always favored comfortable, plain off-duty clothing. She ran a hand through her hair, self-consciously checking her pale blue tunic and pants. No stains or misaligned clothing -- that ruled out staring for other reasons, at least.

"I think we've been recognized," she whispered.

The queue reached the passage to the ship itself. Funneled into the narrow space, Beverly walked arm to arm with Jean-Luc, their bags bumping. He said nothing at all, hardly even looked at her. As they emerged in the boarding area of the _Lady Milana_ the tightly-packed column of passengers dispersed rapidly, departing through sensor arches scanning for weapons, boarding passes that didn't match retinal scans, and contraband.

"Hungry?" Jean-Luc murmured.

"Sure." Beverly followed him to the right. Once through an arch he picked up speed. "What's the hurry?"

"Captain Picard!"

He glared at her as if it was her fault, then glanced over his shoulder, slowing but not stopping. They'd been followed by the same young man, dragging the same young woman by the arm.

"I told you," he exclaimed to the woman. "Sir -- I'm Ensign al-Baqa. I'm stationed on Captain Riker's ship."

"Good for you. I'm sure you'll go far. Excuse us, please." Jean-Luc marched away and left the ensign gaping. Beverly kept up, trying not to laugh.

He chose the first dining area they came to. There were ten people scattered across rows of tables that probably seated a hundred; after visiting the row of replicators along the back wall, Jean-Luc chose a table in a corner, putting his back to the room at large. Beverly sat facing him.

"You could have been friendlier."

"I could have." He didn't even look up from his coffee.

She ate in silence. A single croissant wasn't enough, so she returned to the replicators for some fruit. On her return to the table she noticed a child crawling under the tables, but a young couple nearby also appeared to be watching it, so she did nothing, though she did entertain some disparaging thoughts about overly-permissive parents.

"Are you going to be this quiet for the rest of the trip?" she asked as she took her seat.

Jean-Luc blinked, for a moment caught at a loss, then sighed. "I'm sorry. I've had a lot on my mind. The funeral and the situation at home, mostly."

"I can tell. Want to talk about it?"

He considered it, his eyes losing focus, then jumped and looked down. "Well, hello. Where have you come from?"

The baby had crawled over and was using his leg to pull herself up. She looked up into Jean-Luc's face and gave him a broad smile, showing off two teeth. Her blond flyaway hair reminded Beverly of a halo. She glanced at the young couple, but though they still watched the child they made no move. Not theirs, then. There were only three other people still in the room, and they were Bolian.

"I think she's been left here, Jean-Luc."

He bent and picked her up. "And no one's bothered to do anything about that. Well, we'll change that. What's your name?"

The girl contemplated his face and grinned again. "Ba," she murmured, touching the end of his nose with a finger. She watched him straighten her stained yellow dress and squirmed when he checked for a tag.

"Looking for a name?"

"There's an option in many replicator patterns for identification tags in children's clothing, for parents with wandering toddlers who don't care to use subdermal implants. Let's go to sickbay and see if she has an implant. It's not far."

He carried the child comfortably in an arm, and she curled up against his chest as if she'd known him all her life. "You're quite an old hand at this now, aren't you?" Beverly said as they left the replimat.

"I should be." He closed his mouth quickly enough to keep a tiny set of fingers out. The baby settled for patting his chin. "She's not as active as Yves was at this age."

"Amy's a little younger than this, I think. I'd like to spend a little time with the kids when we get back to the ship, by the way. Get Yves used to seeing me in person instead of just over subspace."

They strode through the wide, brightly-lit corridor. Jean-Luc watched the child, probably hoping she'd react to a passer-by and be reunited with her parents. The girl watched only his face. Beverly smoothed her hair down, enjoying the softness against her palm, and smiled into wide pale eyes when the baby looked at her.

Sickbay on a public transport was full of distractions one would never find in a Starfleet vessel -- plants, toys for children, pictures on walls and non-standard furniture in the waiting area. The doctor on the night watch, a dark-haired woman in white, hurried over as if glad to see some business. "Good morning, and what can I do for you? What a sweet child." The baby had turned and given her a bashful smile before hiding against Jean-Luc's shoulder.

"She is that, but she's not ours. We found her in the replimat unattended. We were hoping she has an implant."

"Let's take her right over here." The doctor led them to a biobed. Jean-Luc put the girl down and stalled her in mid-fuss by grabbing a brightly-colored stuffed parrot from a nearby shelf and waving it in front of her.

The girl turned out to be Sarah Reynolds, and the implant also yielded her parents' names, so they left her in the care of the doctor to return to their meal.

"You're such a dad," Beverly said. The paging system came to life and a female voice called Cathy Reynolds to sickbay.

"Does it show?"

"As much as the captain does." A woman came around the corner, almost colliding with them. She dodged without really seeing them and kept running.

"What are you talking about?"

"It's the demeanor. Captains generally have a way of projecting authority, like they know what to do in any situation. You probably would have done the same thing if you didn't have kids, but you wouldn't have thought to distract the baby with a toy."

Their trays were as they'd left them, and the young couple had been replaced by a handful of loud young men in uniform. "We left the bags," Jean-Luc noted as he sat down. "But it doesn't look like anyone disturbed them."

Both bags were on the floor, behind the table. She spared them a glance and picked up the other half of her banana. "You might even have known about things like identification methods for toddlers. Esoteric knowledge has always been one of your hobbies."

"That's practical, not esoteric."

"It would be esoteric to Captain Picard of ten years ago. Even more so to the Lieutenant-Commander Picard I met before he got promoted and made himself famous. Jack would go into shock if he could see you now."

Jean-Luc put down his spoon, dropped his hand into his lap, and stared at the table between them. "You're right," he said at last. "I was that ignorant, wasn't I?"

Beverly swallowed, barely tasting what she'd just eaten. "Inexperienced."

"But you had Wesley not long after. I paid hardly any attention to him."

"You were a different person. Babies weren't something you wanted or needed to know about."

"He was my best friend's son. I should have paid attention."

"Do I have to slap you out of this?"

He looked up, over the back of his hand; he leaned on an elbow, hand over his mouth, bracketing it with thumb and forefinger thoughtfully. Snorting, he dropped his hand and smiled at her. "No. But I missed an opportunity."

"But you didn't think of it then as an opportunity, either. That was a long time ago."

"And Jack chose Kemper as godfather for his child, anyway." Jean-Luc stabbed his spoon into the pale green wedge of melon on his plate.

"He was going to choose you. He didn't think you'd appreciate being saddled with a little boy if anything happened to us."

"I suppose it wouldn't have been fair to Wesley, either."

"Excuse me." They turned to find the woman who'd nearly run into them. The little girl in her arms held out a hand to Jean-Luc. "I'm Cathy Reynolds -- the doctor told me you brought my daughter in. I wanted to thank you in person. What you must think of me! She's so curious, she crawls so fast -- I only let myself be distracted for a few seconds at the luggage check, and the next instant she just vanished! I wish I didn't have to travel alone."

Jean-Luc stood, turning into the polite officer. "I understand, believe me. I have two young children. She must be in endurance training, the luggage check is around the corner from here."

"Ba," Sarah exclaimed, reaching for him.

"Anyway," Cathy said, blushing. "Thank you so much for thinking of checking for an implant. I wish there was some way I could repay you."

"It was no trouble at all. Are you bound for Earth as well?"

"Yes, to see my husband. I've been living with my mother on Altair, but his ship is at McKinley Station for a refit and he has some leave so we're going to meet him. I'm sorry, she seems to really like you."

Jean-Luc caught the leaning child at last. "Would you like to join us? I'll hold her for you if you'd like to get something to eat."

"Oh -- thank you," Cathy exclaimed, radiating the urge to leap over and hug him. "I'll be right back, Sarah, be good." She caressed her child's head, then hurried for the replicators.

Jean-Luc sat with Sarah in his lap. She studied his movements from the crook of his arm, reaching for the bite of melon as it traveled from plate to his mouth. Beverly giggled. "What?" he asked, glancing at her suspiciously.

"You're such a dad." And a husband, she thought, watching Cathy pick up a tray from a replicator and thinking of all the times she'd wished, while carrying an active baby boy and trying to do other things, she had an extra set of arms.

~^~^~^~^~

 

"Yves, eat it."

"It tastes icky." Yves made a face and shoved the bowl away.

"You like yogurt. It's blueberry."

"Icky. Can I have chocwat?" He squealed as Amy's bottle flew past him and bounced across the floor. "Bad baby!"

Deanna wanted to scream -- instead, she got up, leaving her breakfast again to retrieve the bottle. "Don't talk to your sister that way. You can't have chocolate for breakfast. If you want cereal instead, you can pick what kind."

"I WANT chocwat!"

"You can't have it. You can tell me what cereal you want for breakfast, or you can eat what you have, or you can leave the table."

Yves threw his spoon at the bowl. It missed and slid across the table, leaving a trail of blue.

"To the corner. Now."

He dropped from his chair and stomped across the room to stand facing the wall with his arms crossed, though he hadn't quite managed to cross them and ended up hugging himself. Amy waved her hand and pushed at the tray of her high chair, making frustrated noises.

"We don't throw things," Deanna announced, putting the bottle in the recycler and getting another spoon. "We don't eat candy for breakfast. And you are not moving until you can apologize."

He squirmed, unable to contain his anger, and began twisting back and forth, arms swinging.

Amy refused the pureed fruit and reached for the spoon, wrinkling up her face in dismay each time Deanna took out of reach. "Meeeeeh!"

"Come on, Amy, it's good." Deanna smiled, thinking she must look like an idiot even trying, hoping Amy would accept at least a few bites. "Oh. Ooooohhhh."

Amy formed an 'o' with her mouth, imitating, but clamped it shut and turned away when the spoon reached her lips. She shoved open-handed and got the puree on her hands. She studied this development with all the fascination of Data studying a new concept. She tried rubbing it on the tray, then put her fingers in her mouth. When she switched hands, Deanna got another spoonful and tried again. This time Amy let the spoon in, but after a second bite she refused more.

The door opened. "Good morning!" Lwaxana called out, swooping into the room. "I'm here to report for duty."

"Yay!" Yves shouted, leaping out of the corner.

"Yves!" Deanna glared at him. He wobbled, stood on one foot, screwed up his face, and looked at the floor.

"What's the matter?"

"We're having a bit of an attitude this morning." Deanna put aside the fruit and mopped Amy's face and hands with a napkin. "Do you want to apologize, Yves?"

"Sowwy," he mumbled into his hands.

"What? I can' t hear you."

"I'm sowWY!"

"All right. Come here and give me a hug."

He ran instead to Lwaxana, hesitated, then his face fell. He walked to the table and held up his arms as if accepting punishment. Deanna picked him up and kissed his cheek. Anger at her mother for pushing telepathic suggestions at Yves could wait.

"You be good for Grandma, petit. I love you."

"Can Delly come out now?"

She put him down. "If you're done eating, yes." She went about liberating Amy from the chair, handing her to Lwaxana as she kissed the baby's forehead. "I just fed her as much as she would eat. She slept well enough, a few hours at a time."

"I'm sure it's just a phase," Lwaxana said, watching Yves greet Fidele. "Why did you ever want a dog?"

"He's not exactly a dog, he's an android. I explained that."

"Still." She shifted Amy to her other hip. "Hello, little one. Just look at that hair, just like her grandfather's -- be-yoo-tiful baby," she crooned, bouncing the baby until she laughed.

"Her father's hair," Deanna said.

Lwaxana straightened and didn't even respond when Yves threw a ball for Fidele and struck her leg. "What?"

"It's the same color as his hair, when he was younger. And just as straight." Deanna stroked Amy's fine hair, which was the longest it had ever been, falling just even with her ear lobes.

Lwaxana studied the baby for a few seconds as if she held a changeling. But Amy giggled, trying to clap her hands at Yves, who in his bid for attention had started to clap and dance in place. Grandmother mode kicked in. "But she's such a good little girl, and there's my handsome grandson -- come give Grandma a big hug!"

Deanna left them giggling together with Fidele looking on. It was a good thing the dog had not been programmed for emotions, or he would be hurt by Lwaxana's attitude. Feeling mild guilt for the relief of leaving the room, Deanna checked the front of her uniform for stains and headed for the bridge.

~^~^~^~^~

 

They left Cathy Reynolds in the docking area with her baby and headed for the station-to-surface shuttles. Jean-Luc offered again to take her bag, and this time Beverly let him.

"Caroline said she'd meet us if we call ahead," he said as they reached the check-in desk. "I also want to call Deanna while we still have access to subspace."

"I'll check the flight schedule and see what's available for direct flights to Honolulu. Half an hour?"

"That'll be fine." He rejoined the constant foot traffic in search of public comm booths.

Beverly stepped up to the nearest interface panel and sorted through menus. She found a shuttle to Honolulu, but it departed in an hour. That would be good enough; no sense spending more time than it was worth to locate another option that left earlier. The funeral wasn't until tomorrow anyway. It was only the adjustment to a different time zone and social time that they would be sacrificing. She took the boarding pass from the slot and got out of the way of a lieutenant who waited behind her. Weaving through the queues accumulated at the other check-in terminals, she headed in the same general direction Jean-Luc had, taking her time.

She found him in front of a store contemplating the things in the window. "Mapping out what to pick up on the way home?"

"Perhaps. But it's the wrong color."

She sized up the tiny, sparkling dress. "Purple?"

"And she'd rather have something less reflective."

"Or something she wouldn't expect at all. Hawaiian, even."

He nodded. "True. What's the wait time?"

"The shortest I could get without adding another layover. We have another half hour to go. Did you talk to Dee?"

He started to walk, and she meandered with him along the store fronts. "No, but I did speak to Caroline, and we can call her from the station when we get there. She said she's close enough that by the time we walk from the comm to the front door she'll be waiting."

"Good." Beverly wondered why he hadn't been able to speak to Deanna. "Do you still feel her absence, when you're apart?"

He slowed to contemplate something across the corridor -- a toy store, she decided, choosing between that and a branch office for Interstellar Cruises. "Caroline said that Melissa Greenman is coming, and that Kemp's sister and her daughter are already there."

"Sharon Kemper? I haven't seen her since I was seven months' pregnant."

"You were never her favorite person." Jean-Luc smirked at the memories. "She told Kemp once that Jack would regret marrying you."

"What the hell would she say that for?"

"Jealousy, probably. I always suspected she had a thing for Jack. And she thought you and I were a better match."

Beverly stared at him, waiting for the punchline or some other indication of teasing. He remained quite serious, standing with one hand gripping the straps of their bags to keep their weight on his shoulder, the other dangling at his side.

"I wish you could have brought Tom," he added at last.

"Oh, I don't care, Jean-Luc." She strode past him, turned, and paced back, unable to look him in the face while she dealt with the frustration. "Let them think we're married if they want. Let them think we're having a torrid affair, for that matter. I don't care."

"Don't say that until you see the guest list. Kemper was popular, you know. Presidents, prominent Starfleet admirals -- "

"I know, I know. But we never -- How could they think that now, after all these years? I had no idea Kemper ever -- Ooo, I could just hit Sharon!"

"I don't know if they still think it, and certainly Caroline knows better now. I only mentioned it just in case."

She slugged him in the arm. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"So you wouldn't hit me for not telling you before?" He caught her arm and walked her down the concourse. "I take it that when I told you how I used to feel, it never occurred to you that someone else might have noticed?"

"Never." Tossing her hair back, she wished she'd put it up. Suddenly every little thing annoyed her, including his proximity.

"Is everything all right?"

"Not now! I've got to figure out now how to avoid strangling Sharon the minute I see her."

"I mean with Tom. I've been assuming your moods have been related to the funeral, but I'm not so certain of that. You haven't said a word about Lora, and you've only mentioned Tom once."

"You haven't shared a lot about Deanna, either."

"Don't deflect the question. You were with us for six hours before the two of us left. You know Deanna is fine, and the kids are doing well. You know Lwaxana is driving us crazy." His hand tightened on her elbow when she tried to pull away. "Are you all right?"

"No, but I don't want to talk about that. We have a funeral to go to."

He let go. "Are you hungry?"

"No."

"If you'll watch the bags, I'd like to go try the _Enterprise_ again. Hopefully Deanna is finished talking to whoever called her first."

~^~^~^~^~

 

"They're damned idiots," Tom exclaimed. "They don't get that the Alliance could squash 'em all like bugs if they stay in Alliance space after this."

Deanna opened her eyes. He'd stopped at last. "I think you're doing well enough to get them to talk to you this long. It's frustrating, I'm sure, but if they haven't abandoned the negotiations you've still got a good chance of coming to an agreement."

"Either that or they think they're gonna get what they want."

"Bridge to Commander Troi."

"Hold on a minute, Tom, I'll be right back." She thumbed 'mute' and took a long drink of her water before answering the summons. "Troi here, what is it, Lieutenant?"

"The captain's calling for you again."

"Again? Why didn't you tell me he'd called before?"

"He didn't want to interrupt before. But he says he probably won't have time to call again."

"Ask him to hold on, I'm ending the other call. Then put him through to the ready room once I've terminated the other channel."

"Yes, sir."

She went back to Tom. "I'm sorry, Tom, I have to take this call. I'll talk to you later."

"Sure. Say hi to the kids for me."

The instant the indicator went out, another that had been blinking went solid. "Jean?"

"There you are. Is something afoot?"

"Nothing duty-related. Tom's at loose ends for some reason. He called me last night, too -- is something going on between him and Beverly?"

"There must be. She's not saying a word, and I'm not pushing the issue. This funeral will be hard enough. How are you?"

She closed her eyes again, sinking down in his chair. "Mother's going to spoil the kids beyond repair. She hates Fidele. Amy wakes up if someone on deck twenty-four breathes wrong. Yves has decided he hates all his favorite foods and all he wants is chocolate."

"The same, then. I'm sorry."

"So am I."

"Has Gregory made progress in unraveling the puzzle of Amy's digestive difficulties?" He knew Amy had gone in that morning for an appointment.

"He's thinking it has something to do with lacking an enzyme. It's not a food allergy." Deanna rubbed the sides of her nose, longing for analgesics. "I wish I had kept breast-feeding."

"She had to start eating other foods anyway. It still would have happened. We can always take her to a specialist in hybrid physiology, if Gregory's unsuccessful."

"We'll see." She wished she could take a nap right there, listening to his voice. "First drill in an hour. Nat's doing the briefing. I'm tired, and I miss you."

"We're even. I haven't slept a wink since we left. Beverly snores."

Deanna laughed. "Oh, well. Should have taken a larger shuttle."

"I'll try to call again before the return trip. I wish you were here."

"If you get souvenirs, no candy. Come home and we'll take turns sleeping?"

His low chuckle promised other things. "Eventually, we would. I'll be back soon, cygne. As soon as possible."

"Not soon enough."

The indicator winked out. She closed her eyes and spent a few moments meditating, until she could sense him distantly and reassure herself that he hadn't left out anything that might be bothering him. He was tired, but not anxious. Resigned.

Rising, she left the ready room to go see the doctor about an analgesic, feeling much the same way.

~^~^~^~^~

 

The Kemper home was spacious but not as large as Beverly had imagined from Caroline's description. Roger Kemper had retired early to his family's home town and built a house not far out of Honolulu, with no ocean view but plenty of garden space. The initial meeting with Caroline at the station had been awkward, and upon arriving at the house she had shown them to their rooms and left them there after issuing an open invitation to the kitchen for drinks. Beverly's bedroom was in the southeastern corner, with a view of broad-leafed greenery. She shook out her dress uniform and hung it up, glanced at herself in the mirror, and decided that repairs were in order. The guest bathroom was next door. She took her makeup bag and a beige sundress with a sand dollar pattern. That should be comfortable enough. At the moment, the weather was clear, hot and humid, and though the house was cool, she anticipated a tour of the gardens, Kemp's pride and joy.

She emerged some time later, refreshed and more presentable, to find Jean-Luc coming out of his room, which was across from hers. "I thought you already went with Caroline."

"I have been asked for pictures of the children."

"You didn't bring holographs or locks of hair? Pictures can be faked."

He only looked mildly insulted. "You're all very, very bad people. I don't deserve such teasing."

"No more than Kemp deserved your and Jack's practical jokes." She tossed her traveling clothes in her room and followed him past family pictures hung along the hall.

"Nice dress," he said over his shoulder as he turned the corner. She slugged his shoulder and stopped when her bare feet landed on softness. They'd crossed into an open, carpeted living area. The west wall and half of the ceiling were made up of long panels of transparent aluminum.

"Here she is," Caroline exclaimed, bringing a tall drink out of the kitchen. "You know Sharon, and this is her daughter, Bianca."

The mentioned women hung back in the kitchen, which also had the clear paneling and resembled a sun porch more than most of the kitchens Beverly had ever seen. Of course, there were no cooking or preparation surfaces, or any other item used in preparing meals the old fashioned way. Just the replicator, a small round table and chairs, and a wet bar.

Sharon had dyed her hair red, two shades darker than Beverly's. She was a brunette with an olive complexion and dark brown eyes; the red should have less orange tone to really work, Beverly thought. The daughter had the black-brown hair that Beverly remembered the mother having. Both wore shimmering green silk pantsuits, Sharon in seafoam, Bianca in emerald. Beverly suddenly felt like the dowdy matron at a party for young prima donnas.

"I remember Beverly," Sharon said. "Sorry we didn't see you when you came in. Bee and I were out on a walk. Didn't you have a son?"

"Wesley."

"She had him ten months before you were born, Bee." Sharon smiled lazily. "Too bad he didn't come along."

"Let's see those pictures," Caroline exclaimed. Jean-Luc handed over the case and picked up a drink from an end table.

Beverly glanced at the pictures from a distance until she recognized them as duplicates of ones she'd already seen, then went to look out at the yard.

"These are all baby pictures," Sharon said.

"If you want something else, you'll have to wait a while. I can put you on the distribution list." Jean-Luc's calm reply was infuriating. How many times had he confronted this sort of thing, that he had such an answer prepared? He wasn't the only man his age with young children. People often waited late these days, with the maximum life span increasing as it was.

But no, it was deliberate. That made it worse. Caroline whispered, "I told you, Sharon."

"I've actually thought about having another child," Beverly announced airily.

"Tom would probably be more than happy to help," Jean-Luc said.

"And Lora's like a built-in babysitter. She's asked before if she'd ever have a little sister." Beverly strolled over to bump Jean-Luc with her elbow. "Or I could borrow Yves for a little while."

"Only if you plan on housing the dog and his book collection. And taking him for his daily mud bath."

"Mud bath," Bianca echoed, incredulous.

"That would be his grandmother's influence," Beverly said. "Lwaxana loves them."

"Johnny, is the baby really that fussy? She seems to be crying in almost every picture," Caroline said, riffling back through the stack. Her easy usage of the old name jarred Beverly.

If it bothered Jean-Luc, he didn't show it. "The doctor thinks it's an enzyme imbalance that's making her feel ill all the time. Currently, anyway -- for a while the working theory was colic, then it was food allergies. If we have to we'll take her to a specialist in hybrid physiology. Since there are so many Betazoid-human hybrids now, it shouldn't be difficult to locate one familiar with them."

"Oh, that's what she is," Bianca exclaimed. "I mean, I was wondering -- she's very pretty, your wife."

"Thank you." Jean-Luc turned to Beverly. "Have you run into that problem with Lora at all?"

"No. And it's surprised me that she's had such an easy time. Bajorans rarely hybridize easily with humans." She caught herself before launching into technicalities; Jean-Luc might be interested in such a conversation, but the others wouldn't necessarily find such a discussion enjoyable.

"I went to school with a Bajoran," Bianca said. "The last two years of college. She was in most of my classes."

"What was your major?" Beverly asked.

"Agricultural science. Crops and their care, specifically grains. I'm going to Betazed next week for an interview with their bureau of agriculture -- there's an opening in one of the labs. Have you been to Betazed? I mean -- of course you have. What's it like?" She directed the question to Jean-Luc.

"That depends on what continent and which province. My visits have been limited to a very specific area."

"Tier?"

"That's not far from the Fourth House, I believe. That makes sense. Kierva province is where most of the field crops are grown." He sidled into the kitchen as he spoke to refill his drink.

"What is it with the Houses?" Sharon asked, gliding out into the living room proper and sitting on one end of the crescent-shaped sectional. "I'm going with Bee as a tourist, and all the literature is just full of descriptions and maps to the Houses of Betazed."

"History." Jean-Luc returned as Beverly settled on the sofa herself, near the other end but not on it. No sense in making things too obvious. He gave her a knowing glance and came to a stop closer to her than to the others, tucking his free hand behind his back and facing them as if delivering a lecture. "You'll hear a lot of it from tour guides, if you take tours. Deanna is a Daughter of the Fifth House."

"The one with the rings," Bianca said brightly. "And the chalice. What are the rings for? How big are they?"

"About six inches in diameter, at the largest. They look like they're made of weathered bronze. At the moment they hang in a case on the second floor of the Fifth House, but they were intended to be suspended from the branches of a _ganesh_ \-- a particular type of tree, something like an oak but much taller -- at the winter solstice. They play an odd-sounding chord in approximately the key of C. The order of the notes was interpreted by priestesses and used to foretell the future."

"You're kidding," Beverly exclaimed. "All these years, and Dee never told us about that."

"We never asked her."

"I wonder why." Beverly crossed her legs and frowned. "I think I know more about Worf's culture than hers."

"Betazoids go through their rites of passage earlier, and with less violence."

"What's a Worf?" Caroline asked.

"Worf is a Klingon," Beverly said, when Jean-Luc didn't. "Currently the Ambassador, but when we all served aboard the _Enterprise_ he was our security chief. He was also my martial arts instructor. He's still our very good friend."

"And Tom?" Sharon sipped her daiquiri and glanced at Caroline, who still hovered nearby.

"Tom Glendenning, captain of the _Venture_."

Sharon froze, lips still pursed around her straw. When she recovered she rose and strode into the kitchen, her silk pants whispering.

"Glendenning," Bianca echoed. "Where have I heard that name?"

"Catriona Sinclair," Beverly said. Cat was the only connection between Tom and that part of her past. "He's her brother."

Bianca turned half-around. "Mom, didn't you say you knew him?"

"That was a long time ago."

Beverly exchanged a wary look with Jean-Luc. But nothing more was said about Tom. Caroline took them outside for a walk to a spot where they could see the sun set over the distant sea. Sharon hardly participated in conversation, even when they reminisced.

~^~^~^~^~

 

Deanna studied her tired face in the mirror and wished for more sleep. Distantly, she knew Amy still slept. Yves had something on his mind, but he often rose early and stayed in his room playing.

She turned in profile. Why couldn't she lose those last few pounds? All the exercise didn't seem to be helping. Her hair had grown in again, after the post-pregnancy thinning; no more patches of scalp visible through it. In fact, it seemed unusually thick, and the curls had become more like waves. Leaning close, she brushed her fingers over her cheek. The dryness she'd noticed a few months ago seemed to have vanished.

After a shower, she dressed slowly, noting that her bra was too tight. What was going on? Again in front of the mirror at her dressing table she put her hands on her hips and stared at the uniformed officer she had become, in the gray-shouldered jacket with the undershirt a narrow red wedge down the front. Shaking her head, she went to see Yves.

"Hi, Maman," he exclaimed cheerfully. Fidele had helped him build a short bridge with his sticky blocks, using all the blue ones. One by one he lined up a dozen toy officers along the narrow span.

"What are we investigating today?"

"That's the 'way team. Going to cross the bwidge, then go ovah there, to tawk to the Landwa."

Deanna dropped to one knee and brushed his black hair away from his forehead. He'd had curly hair as a baby; now it could be combed down, with only a row of loose curls across the back of his neck. "What are you going to tell the Randra?"

"We don' want to fight. Papa doesn't want them to."

She ran her fingers through his hair, tickling the back of his neck. "Let's get dressed and let the away team handle it. Fidele can watch them for you."

The dog took her seriously. While she chose shirt and pants, Fidele stared at the toys as if they might actually do something. Yves peeled off pajamas and underwear, but when she handed him a new pair of shorts he grimaced.

"Why do I haveta wear cwothes?"

"Have you ever seen anyone aboard this ship without clothes on?"

"Lana'hest."

"He's Sulamid, they never wear clothes. Anyone else?"

"Gwanma takes off clothes."

"But she only does that for mud baths. The rest of the time she wears clothes. Put on your underwear."

He leaned on the dresser and pulled them up one-handed, turning his back to her so he could use his right hand. She pulled the shirt over his head, surprising him; he leaped around, squealing and laughing, pushing his arms at the sleeves. "It's a nubbwy," he said with approval, pinching the textured fabric. She'd picked one of his favorites, a rust-colored shirt with a woven look, just like one of Papa's. He liked the feel of it against his skin.

While she waited for him to pull on pants, she sensed her mother's arrival, right on time to help with breakfast, as asked. Lwaxana found them in seconds. "Oh, why don't you help him?"

Yves had one leg almost on. "I don't need hep!" He hopped, getting the last two inches over his heel in increments, and steadied himself against the dresser to put his other leg in.

"Well, isn't that just like his mother?" Lwaxana said. "You never wanted any help from anyone."

"It's a common thing for children to want to do things themselves, Mother."

"If you could have changed your own diaper, you would have."

"Don't forget shoes." Deanna suppressed a sigh. If only her mother would stop comparing them to her.

Yves went to study his selection, picking a pair of black ones. The bin once used to store shoes was now filled with toys. After seeing his Papa's shoes lined up in the bottom of the closet, he'd carefully lined up all of his own, against the wall in the absence of a closet.

"You _are_ a big boy," Lwaxana exclaimed when he'd pushed his feet into them and straightened his shirt.

"I need a hair bwush," he announced, pointing. Deanna got it from the top of the dresser for him. "Thank you."

"Would you like a muffin for breakfast?" Deanna asked.

"Bwuebewwy!" He jumped even while running the brush over his head, evidently forgetting that yesterday he'd hated blueberry.

"Don't forget, no pets at the table," she said, heading for the door.

"You know, Little One, that I would _never_ want to criticize," Lwaxana began the instant they cleared the door to Yves' room. "I wouldn't judge by what I see on a short visit. But I've been here for a month, and I can't help thinking that you and Jean-Luc are being too demanding. He's only a little boy!"

Deanna whirled and met her mother's eyes sternly. In the pause, they heard Yves. "Delly, I'm sowwy. You have to stay in this woom. I can pway with you aftow bweakfast."

"I will stay," Fidele replied.

"Unnatural," Lwaxana muttered. "A talking dog."

"Do I have to remind you again?" Deanna put her hands on her hips.

"No. You do not."

The stiff answer notwithstanding, Deanna knew it wasn't the end. It hadn't been the end the last time she'd asked. She started for the nursery, turning her back on her mother.

[I find it odd that Jean-Luc would go anywhere right now.] Her mother's thought came through clearly, along with a curious ire.

Amy had awakened, for once without crying. She sat up in her crib chewing on her fingers. "Eee," she greeted, pointing with moist fingers at Deanna.

"Good morning to you, too. Let's have breakfast."

[What do you mean?] Deanna asked her mother while putting Amy in pants and a shirt.

[He must have noticed the symptoms.]

Carrying Amy, she returned to the living room. Her mother was at the replicator, and Yves waiting at her side telling her he would help her. [What symptoms?]

Lwaxana handed Yves a bottle. "Give this to your sister, dear."

"Bottoes for babies," Yves announced while crossing the room to the high chair. "Here, baby."

Deanna intercepted the bottle. "What is this?" she asked over Amy's wind-up wail, prompted by the appearance and subsequent denial of a bottle.

"Formula, of course. It's just the same as I used to feed you."

"It's gray."

"I don't believe Amia will notice the difference. You never did." Lwaxana gave Yves a plate with fruit on it. He marched jauntily to the table, losing one piece every other step. [You see? He's still a little boy! I don't know why you insist on having him help before he's able.]

Deanna thanked him and asked him to pick up the dropped fruit. [Because I'm more interested in a child with manners than I am unbruised fruit. And I usually put things in bowls if he's going to carry them.] She punctuated the thought with a brief glare and finally gave Amy her bottle, putting an end to impatient keening and tray-banging.

They ate and let Yves control the conversation, which meant a wandering journey through the mind of a mud-bath-obsessed four-year-old whose idea of fun would be, from what he said, taking all his blocks with him to the holodeck and building a bridge over the mud pit so Fidele could sit on it. Deanna heard the bottle hit the edge of the tray on its way down. She picked it up to find it almost empty, and the few pieces of fruit she'd put on the tray were gone. Amy had her hand stuffed in her mouth; she grinned around it and bounced a few times, humming.

When the dishes were cleared and Amy set free to crawl, Deanna watched the children -- Yves retrieved Fidele and dragged out his box of blocks with the dog's help, and Amy rediscovered Mr. Tiggles, who had been left on the floor under an end table. She sat up and explored the stuffed targ's left tusk with her fingertips.

[I told you she'd like the formula.]

Deanna picked up a padd from where she'd left it on the sofa last night. [What was in it?]

[Oh, just the ingredients the specialist recommended for you, when you were starting to eat solid foods.] Lwaxana picked a cushion off the sofa and tossed it on the floor. She patted Deanna's arm lightly. [You could have asked. I did have two human hybrids of my own, you know.]

Deanna winced. [You waited this long to give it to her? Mother -- ]

[I didn't know if it would work or not. And you keep telling me, don't interfere, they're you're children. I've been giving it to her for lunch. You can tell it's helped, she cries less often now than when I arrived.]

[Thank you, Mother.]

[It's all right, dear, really.] Lwaxana dropped to the cushion. "So what will we build today, petit?"

"A fowtwess!"

"Let's make it interesting. While we're building it, we'll talk in nothing but Betazoid."

Deanna made it to a lift before giving in to the anger. Fingernails cutting into her palms, she groped for calm, knowing lost tempers wouldn't help anyone. Why did her mother always do this to her? She had made life difficult for nearly the entire duration of her visit, and now she not only started cooperating, she dispensed a grand revelation that solved a major problem.

Of course, she hadn't revealed the supposed cause of the mysterious 'symptoms' she thought Deanna had. That might be an opportunity to head off another of her mother's attempts at the upper hand. Crew physicals were in progress. Deanna's was supposed to be in two weeks, but it should be easy enough to get in early.

~^~^~^~^~^~

 

Beverly woke early, but rose later than usual. Six hours until the funeral. Hell. They'd reminisced until Jean-Luc fell asleep in a chair the previous evening and then all gone off to bed. She didn't think she had any more reminiscing in her, and she didn't relish the thought of sharing current affairs with Sharon in any depth.

Dressed in a royal blue tunic over black pants, she left the bathroom to put away her things and the borrowed robe. She paused outside her door when she heard something from Jean-Luc's room. A rhythmic something, that sounded like -- she didn't want to think about what it sounded like. She didn't want to know, she decided, and closed her door harder than she'd intended. Leaning against it, she held her breath and wanted to cry.

Dropping the bag of toiletries and robe on the bed, she opened her door and discovered Jean-Luc had also opened his door. Out of breath, and God, what was he doing shirtless? "Something wrong?" he asked.

"No, the door got away from me. You look like you've been. . . exercising."

"Mostly because I have. Push-ups. I have a physical to get through next week."

"Oh. Well, you might consider what else push-ups sound like before you do them behind closed doors, especially with three other sets of ears around to hear you." She gave him an amused smile and started down the hall. "Shower's free."

"Merde." He banged his door shut.

Caroline sat in the kitchen alone, with the early morning sun streaming through leaves to dapple the tile floor. "Good morning."

"That's dubious." Beverly replicated coffee and a plate of toast, not finding croissants or other pastries in the menu right away. "You didn't sleep. I wish you would've let me give you a mild sedative."

"I was fine until we got to things I was around to remember. All that ancient history you share with him, it's like that happened to a different person, not my Roger." She closed her eyes, pressing her forehead with her palm as she leaned that elbow on the table. "Johnny's changed."

Finally, someone said what had been suggested in glances the previous evening. "We all have. I don't need to tell you that."

"But he's. . . . I don't know. You're right. I just have difficulty reconciling the man I knew and the lieutenant Roger always talked about with the man I picked up at the shuttle port yesterday. I can't say he's old, though he does look a little older than the last time I saw him in person. I can't say he's lost his sense of humor -- but even that's different. The things he talks about, the adventures he's had, it's like he's something out of the Iliad."

"You have no idea." Beverly spread marmalade on a piece of toast. "He didn't even mention the worst of it."

"You mean the Borg?" Caroline's weary gray eyes remained focused on the coffee cup in front of her. "I remember seeing it in the news. Roger was still teaching at the Academy -- he said Johnny was assimilated, and he couldn't bring himself to describe it to me."

"I hope you don't expect me to, either. I had to remove all the implants. Eight surgeries and numerous outpatient visits later, he still had scars."

Caroline drank coffee, put down the cup, and winced, turning toward the wall suddenly. After a moment of composing herself she said, "Roger should have had surgery sooner."

"Lingon's Syndrome doesn't always follow a set path. It's unpredictable and sometimes untreatable, unless the symptoms manifest early enough. You can't blame anyone. Especially yourself."

Caroline's tormented eyes met Beverly's, glimmering with tears. "I should have tried to have a child sooner. They found the first indication of Lingon's when he went in for a sperm count -- they gave him a thorough physical while he was in."

While that statement sank in, Jean-Luc made his appearance; after a look at Caroline he went to the replicator without a word. He would have taken his coffee and left again, but Caroline cleared her throat.

"Want some toast, Johnny?"

He turned in mid-step and pulled out a chair. "Are the birds always so vocal in the mornings?"

"Only when it's not stormy. You amaze me." Caroline managed a wavering smile and pinched his arm. He'd worn short sleeves.

"I need to amaze a doctor in a week. I'm not quite where I want to be, but I had a setback last year. Took a while to get back into shape."

"I suppose you _want_ to be a twenty-year-old again?" Beverly shoved the plate of toast toward him.

"Thirty would be satisfactory."

"I'd settle for forty," Beverly said. "Maybe I could keep up with Tom."

"No rest for cradle-robbers." Jean-Luc didn't quite smile at it.

"I'd like to meet him," Caroline said. "Anyone who can infuriate Sharon that way. She's usually cool as polar ice."

Beverly hid her reaction by rising to get something else. "You know what happened between them?"

"I gather it had something to do with the sister you mentioned and a blind date?"

"Tom doesn't tell me much about his sordid past." She brought two tangerines back to the table. They were the first fruit in the replicator menu, and good enough for her. "I gather he had quite a reputation for a while. Catriona played matchmaker for him sometimes when he came home -- she did try to set me up with him, but then along came Jack."

"I wish I'd been around to meet Jack. He sounds like someone I would like."

"If you liked Kemper, you would have liked Jack," Jean-Luc said offhandedly while peeling one of the tangerines. At once, he glanced anxiously at her face. She didn't react, however. The three of them sat in silence, Caroline sighing and sipping her cold coffee, Jean-Luc sectioning the tangerine, Beverly taking her time ripping fingernail-sized bits of rind from hers.

"I don't know what I'm going to do now," Caroline said at last. "I've known for months what the end would be -- Roger made me promise I'd make a new life for myself, even if it means selling the house and going elsewhere. But I can't think of a single thing to do."

"Close up the house and go on a trip."

She looked at Jean-Luc as if he'd turned into a stranger.

"Give yourself a break. Then come back here and see how you feel about things, whether you want to stay or move. Think about what you'd like to do and where you'd like to do it."

Caroline actually smiled, but it faded fast. "Do you ever think of what you would do, if anything happened to Deanna in the line of duty?"

For a moment, Beverly thought he wouldn't answer. The look on his face reminded her of his mood after he'd discovered his brother and nephew had died, but only for a few seconds. "I think anyone with a spouse in Starfleet thinks about that, especially since the Dominion War. But we can't base our decisions on imagined outcomes. There was a pivotal point at which I recognized that our lives are the result of decisions we made to the best of our ability, and that I can't undo what I've done. I can only make the best of what I have now."

"Of course, you go about it in an entirely different way than Lwaxana," Beverly said, trying to lighten his mood before he had Caroline in tears again.

"She tries to move on. But there are some things that scar you forever." Beverly kicked his shin under the table. Sipping and putting down his coffee, he picked up the remaining half of his tangerine and took the hint. "For instance, I'll never forget her wedding to Campio. I've been trying to put that out of my head for years."

"Lwaxana's his mother-in-law," Beverly explained, not remembering if they'd mentioned that. "Betazoid weddings are performed in the nude."

Caroline went wide-eyed.

"Campio was not Betazoid, and he was. . . offended. To put it mildly." Jean-Luc shook his head.

"And you find nudity offensive?" Caroline asked.

"It depends upon setting and purpose, of course."

"Did you have a Betazoid ceremony?"

Beverly stifled a laugh. He glared at her, but hid a slight smile with another sip of his coffee. Caroline shoved him gently. "Come on. I remember when Roger got the invitation -- he couldn't believe it wasn't a joke."

"I was so mad," Beverly exclaimed. "Deanna didn't even know what he was doing! He planned the whole ceremony and surprised her with it."

"Well, she certainly wasn't getting anywhere with planning it. I had to do something before her mother stepped in."

"I wish we'd been able to go." Caroline's voice rippled, but with laughter instead of tears. "You planned it all by yourself?"

"I had help. There were people on board who knew all about that sort of thing -- I delegated."

"I have to admit it went pretty well," Beverly said. "Considering. But you know, he's still personae non grata in the Houses until they have a Betazoid ceremony."

"I'm not a Troi, and I have no desire to be one. The Houses can't force me into it."

"Would you do it if Dee asked you to?" Beverly asked. "Get up in front of hundreds of Betazoids and show them all what you've got?"

He paused. Caroline seemed to hold her breath. He sighed, then rolled his eyes. "If she asked. But no one would be able to _see_ what I've got. They keep the Fifth House too cold."

He smiled while they laughed, and winked at Beverly. When the annunciator sounded, Caroline went to answer it. In her absence Beverly caught his hand. "Thank you. She needed that. The rest of the day will be all uphill."

"I know," he murmured as voices drifted in from the foyer. "Not my first funeral."

~^~^~^~^~

 

"There's nothing wrong," Gregory said, sitting down at his desk as Deanna took one of the two chairs facing it.

"But," she added, sensing concern.

"But, your hormone levels are puzzling. Considering the type of birth control you're using, the readings I'm getting should be impossible. And after a brief consultation of the computer to be sure, my diagnosis is the Phase."

She fell back in the chair as if struck physically. "That normally happens after fifty."

"It's not unknown for it to occur earlier. What I'm not certain of is how to predict its impact on you or the captain. You skipped all the early, most obvious symptoms by having a bonded husband; what will happen over the course of it, and how long it will last, I have no idea. It could be negligible, given that he's human and you're half. But it's why you have symptoms similar to those you experience during pregnancy. Your body is preparing for just that outcome, and then some."

She understood what he was saying -- it was no coincidence that fifty-year-old Betazoid women often had multiple births. "I'll have to switch birth control methods."

"Yes. I would suggest using more than one. Unless, of course, you'd like to add to the family."

She left sickbay in a daze. It shouldn't affect their daily lives. She didn't feel substantially different -- she did, but that was just from the shock of finding out. In the lift she wrung her hands and wished Jean-Luc were there. What would he think?

What was _she_ thinking? Of course, he'd react predictably. The more she considered the past few weeks, in fact, the more she thought he had already been reacting. All those long, silent looks. The times she caught him hovering while she dealt with one of the children but more focused on her than on either Amy or Yves. The long embrace in the shuttle bay right before he left. Very subtle, and even the one or two times she'd noticed the difference, she had attributed it to more mundane causes. His recovery from their encounter on Khevlin had been slow.

She set it all aside when she reached the bridge. The day's drill, a disaster recovery scenario this time, distracted her from it, but in the ready room afterward with the recordings in front of her, she found her mind drifting back to it. An incoming transmission shook her out of her consideration. When she found out it was Tom, she only felt irritated.

"I'm beginning to wonder if you aren't trying to tell me something," she said, overcompensating to cover her annoyance and then appalled at herself for daring to flirt. But it meant nothing, she'd always had a half-flirting, pseudo-sibling relationship with Tom. She should act normally. She had to.

"Don't think so, don't have a death wish," he exclaimed with little of his usual nonchalance. Though he seemed to be trying very hard. She wasn't the only one with an issue.

"Why are you so nervous?" she asked softly. "There's something you haven't said. Isn't there?"

Another long pause. "I've got a counselor, thanks."

"You didn't want Beverly to go. Did you fight with her about it?"

"No. Maybe. Do you know who all the people involved are? You know about how Cat, my sister, used to dance in repertory with Beverly before she married Jack?"

"I believe I've heard that mentioned."

"Cat used to play matchmaker. The sister of the deceased was one of her victims."

"And you're afraid Bev will talk to her, about you?"

"Mmm. . . no, not exactly. I'm afraid Sharon will. . . ."

"Is there a class in shrub abuse at the Academy?"

"Shrub -- " Tom howled with laughter. It sounded like he struck the desk a few times. "God, that's bad. I'm sorry. I've just been thinking about this since we heard about the funeral and Beverly explained the connections between people. It's complicated."

"I don't understand what's so complicated. After everything you two have been through, something this far in your past doesn't seem so terrible."

"This isn't about me. This group, Jack and Jean-Luc and Beverly, Walker Keel, Kemper -- I didn't meet them. Everything I know is second-hand, through Verly or Cat. Sharon Kemper happened to be one of my sister's mistakes in matchmaking. We didn't hit it off, though I was dubious enough -- or bored enough -- to go out with her twice. I heard from her again months later. She claimed her daughter was mine."

"That's easy enough to disprove."

"Which is why I did it so quickly. I even went through all the trouble of scrambling back to Earth and having her set of doctors run the test, just so she wouldn't accuse me of bribing someone to substitute someone else's DNA for the negative result. She wasn't exactly happy. The last thing she said was 'great, it must be Jack.' Then she turned around and walked off, and I got the hell back to space where I belonged. That isn't the worst of it -- when I put all this together, I tried to use what facts I did know. Sharon's kid is a year younger than Wesley. If it was Verly's dead husband Sharon was talking about, this isn't going to make anyone happy."

"Jack was in space," Deanna exclaimed.

"But he had to have visited when Wes was born. Starfleet allows some leave for that sort of thing. Given the timing and all, it's possible -- probable I don't know about, and if this all comes out at the funeral. . . ." Something cracked, and Deanna wondered what he'd broken. "I should be there, dammit. I'm on a mission going nowhere fast. It could have been postponed. These idiots are so greedy for transporter technology, they'd have waited."

"Why wouldn't this have come out before? Surely if it was Jack's child -- "

"You don't know he didn't somehow make a deal with Sharon to keep it a secret. You don't know what arrangements there were on the side."

Somehow she didn't think there were any, but Tom, thanks to his background, never took anything or anyone at face value. And he was right. However remote, there was a chance. "She'll be all right. Jean-Luc is there. You know he'll step in if necessary."

"Except I should be there."

"She'll be home soon, Tom. Everything will be all right. You have work to do, and she can handle it on her own."

"We're talking about Jack, of the happy memories of wedded bliss. She mourned him for years after he died. If Sharon takes that away from Verly, I'll kill her."

"Tom!"

"I'll _want_ to kill her," he amended, though it didn't make her feel better. "What the hell else can I do?"

"Spend a lot of time in therapy? Beat up more bushes?"

"It's beating *around* -- you have *got* to be doing that on purpose! You and your doorstops, and all the other mangled metaphors." He exhaled loudly. "All right. I'll stop having fits, if it's possible. But do me a favor -- as soon as you talk to him, have Jean-Luc give me a call so I can put the question to him? Because if this all comes to nothing -- "

"I understand. I'll ask."

"Thanks, Dee. You're the best little sister I ever had."

~^~^~^~^~

 

There was no ceremony. Kemper had been specific about what he wanted; Caroline had rented a picnic area in a nature preserve, on top of a cliff overlooking the sea, and acquired the permit for spreading his ashes on the wind. The gathering was informal, lacking a set schedule. He'd wanted no eulogies or speeches made. The only certainty would be Caroline taking the urn to the edge of the rocky promontory at sunset. The menu was just as he requested, and Beverly recognized the significance of certain items immediately.

"Poi," she said, pointing it out to Jean-Luc at the buffet table under the huge green canopy. "Remember?"

"Kemp and his one-finger poi. We all thought he was joking." Jean-Luc ladled some into a dish from the stack next to the large blowfish-shaped bowl of poi and tested it. The mixture dripped off the two fingers he used for a scoop. "This isn't even two-finger poi. The caterer should be shot."

"What do you mean?" They had forgotten about the possibility of an audience, which was a ridiculous oversight -- there had to be ninety people attending. Beverly turned to find a boy waiting behind her with a half-full plate.

"Poi is traditionally eaten with the fingers. If it's thick enough, you can use one." Beverly got herself a bowl and moved aside. The boy took too much, and when he followed her example with three fingers, the instant it touched his tongue he made a face.

"It's an acquired taste," Jean-Luc said. "It's better than gagh, actually."

"What's gaah?" the boy exclaimed, between sips of his beverage.

"Gagh. It's Klingon. Live worms in sauce." At least he left out the main ingredient of the sauce.

The kid stared at him. "Naaaah. You're teasing me."

"He's not. One of our best friends is a Klingon."

Another dubious look, and the boy moved away down the table. Jean-Luc chuckled and added a flaky piece of broiled fish to his plate.

When they'd settled at one of the picnic tables, Caroline came over, her skirt flapping in the onshore breeze. "How is everything?"

"The food is wonderful," Beverly said, gesturing at the bench and sliding over a few inches.

Caroline sat next to her and eyed their plates sadly. "I just can't eat a thing. It's all so unreal to me."

"I know," Beverly murmured, squeezing her shoulder. "I can't believe all the people -- I only know a handful of them."

"It's a good turnout. That's Roger's old supervisor, Salvek -- he brought his wife T'ren. There's one of his cousins, her name escapes me at the moment. . . ." Caroline watched a group of children dodging and chasing each other.

"Marvelous setting," Jean-Luc said. He swiped a drip of poi from his shoulder with a napkin.

"You didn't have to come in uniform. It's too warm."

"We wanted to," Beverly said, though she agreed that their dress uniforms were wrong for the climate -- the last incarnation, the whites, would have been better, but now they were forced to wear black and gray, the departmental color limited to a bit of piping at the ends of the sleeves and along the high, stiff collar. "Besides, Jean-Luc never sweats."

"It's in the handbook. 'All officers with more than two pips must avoid sweating.' Beverly's been caught more than once."

Caroline looked from one to the other and back, trying to decide if this was serious, and finally laughed. "You're terrible. I should get back to mingling, there's a group of new arrivals coming off the trail -- are you still set on leaving after the funeral? You're welcome to stay another night."

"Thank you, but as tempting as it is, I should get back as soon as possible." Jean-Luc smiled, yet managed to convey his regret.

Caroline hurried off. Beverly glanced around the grassy slopes and counted familiar faces. A few uniforms, but most had conformed to Caroline's suggested informal dress code.

"Kemp wasn't kidding about the views," Jean-Luc said. He was paying more attention to the ocean, the sky, and the expanse of green between their table and the rocks.

"I can't imagine what it must be like. It was bad enough losing Jack the way I did -- to lose someone to such a long illness, watch him die. . . ." It happened so rarely that she could hardly believe it could happen at all.

Jean-Luc didn't respond, only stared out to sea, and she realized he hadn't even heard her. She threw a vegetable at him. When it bounced off his arm, he jumped. "What was that for?"

"Going sailing without me, there?"

He shook his head and poked at his assorted hors d'oeuvres. "My mind is on other things. I'm sorry."

"I suppose funerals do that."

"I'm sorry to say it isn't Kemp I'm thinking about. Something's wrong."

"What is it?"

"That's what I'm trying to understand. I keep thinking about Deanna, even at the most inappropriate times -- I have nothing to be anxious about, yet I am. If something were actually wrong, she would have found a way to reach me, so I can't reconcile this. It's completely irrational."

A shadow fell on Beverly. They both turned; Bianca had come up the slope from the railing, and stopped at the end of their table. Her hair blew loose around her face, which was contorted in anger or angst -- hard to tell which.

"Something wrong?" Beverly asked.

"I can't believe my father came. He hardly knew Uncle Roger." Biana dropped onto the end of the bench and put her face in her hands. "I can't believe he'd show his face here. He's got to be doing it to get to Mom."

"Your father?" Jean-Luc asked.

"He's over there. The big-mouthed one in the white suit." She flicked her hand toward the cliffs dismissively. A group of people, one of them matching her description, stood near the railing talking animatedly. "His name's Jack O'Reilly. You know he hardly showed his face when I was growing up? Mom always sent him invitations to stuff I was doing, and he never came. Too busy. He finally came to my graduation from college. I may have happened because of a mistake they made, but Mom never treated me like I was a mistake. _He_ pretended I didn't exist -- just because he worked with Uncle Roger for a while, he has to show up, when it was always Uncle Roger who was there for me -- "

Beverly slipped an arm around her as she broke down, and Jean-Luc produced a handkerchief from somewhere and passed it across the table.

The hours passed slowly. While the sun crept down to its appointment with the horizon, Beverly alternated between mingling and wandering off to stare at the sea. It really was the perfect setting -- others were doing the same. The ability to take a break from quiet reminiscing and grieving was obviously much appreciated, and made the task of saying farewell to Roger Kemper less arduous.

For most of them, anyway. Caroline's tenuous self-control seemed to be cracking. As the sun touched the ocean, turning the sky orange and the thin clouds red, she stood in the center of the gathered guests with the urn, apparently unable to face the final good-bye. No one spoke. Beverly finally pushed through the crowd and put an arm around her. Sharon had had the same thought; she arrived seconds later, met Beverly's eyes briefly, and also slipped an arm around her sister-in-law. They moved with Caroline when she finally took a step, walking with her down the slope. Beverly kept an eye on the terrain and nudged right to guide them around a mostly-buried rock. Caroline's tears flowed copiously now.

They reached rock, followed the narrow trail worn to the point, and stood at the railing with Caroline's black skirt flapping around their legs. She hugged the white urn for a few moments, then jerked the top open in four quick turns. When the wind turned at last, she pulled the lid free and raised the urn high overhead, and the trail of ashes blew free, in a long gray crescent that dissipated rapidly. Caroline pitched forward, bumping the rail, and Sharon and Beverly caught her arms; the lid spun in the air as it fell, the metal ring above the threads catching the sunlight and flashing orange once before it disappeared into the pounding waves. Sharon shot Beverly a wild look and guided Caroline backward, supporting her when she stumbled. As Caroline sobbed and wrapped her arms around the empty urn, she turned to Sharon, who pulled her into a hug.

Beverly stepped away from them and gripped the cold metal railing, staring down at the waves crashing against the rocks. There had been no cliff at Jack's funeral. There had been a grave, and she remembered the casket dropping slowly, the numbness that kept her eyes dry, and a little boy clinging to her hand, confused and afraid and relying on her, his only remaining means of support. Would she have felt the urge to fall in after Jack without those sticky little hands to hold her down?

She realized how long she stood there only when Jean-Luc appeared at her side. The sun had nearly sunk into the sea and the light was going. Stars were barely visible overhead. He touched her arm, then stepped up beside her to look down as well. It occurred to her that they were the last ones -- of their circle of friends from the early years, that trying period between cadet and mature officer, all of them had come through so much danger and fallen one by one, until only the three were left. And then Kemp had gone, not with a bang but a whimper. And now there were two.

She wondered if Jean-Luc was thinking, as she was, which of them would be at the other's funeral.

He passed her a handkerchief -- this time she saw where it came from, an inner pocket he must have added to the inside front of his jacket -- and watched her mop her eyes. "Everyone else is already gone, or going."

She almost cried again, as it sounded like an echo of her thoughts, but caught herself. Of course he only meant the other guests. "Okay. I know you need to get home."

"Don't rush on my account. Deanna can handle whatever comes up."

She laughed brokenly, turning, and misjudged distance. But instead of avoiding her, he caught her in his arms and then they were holding each other tightly. It jarred the knot in her chest loose. She sobbed into his shoulder, the way she hadn't done at other funerals, not even Jack's.

And sure enough, when she slowed and took a step back, another handkerchief. "You're a captain, not a handkerchief dispenser," she exclaimed, dabbing her eyes.

"Couldn't prove it today. I think that's the last one, though."

Beverly sighed and looked at the slope they had to climb. The caterers had lights around the canopy to facilitate cleanup, and a string of lights on poles up the trail to the road, but there was still a long dark distance from the promontory to the buffet.

Jean-Luc did something that clicked, and a hand light went on.

"I don't believe you!"

"After you, mademoiselle."

She started up the rock, glad for her boots, even if they were the slick-soled dress version; sandals or pumps would be murder. "Please tell me you borrowed that from the caterers."

"Can't."

"You're such an officer."

~^~^~^~^~

 

"It's only a partial solution," Gregory said, letting Amy fondle the back of the tricorder he held. "But it's a good starting point. Why didn't she give you the formula when she found out Amy was having difficulties?"

"Perhaps she didn't remember it right away. I couldn't say."

Amy turned at the waist to watch a nurse walk behind her, reaching for the hypospray she carried. Deprived of that opportunity, she jammed her fingers in her mouth and studied Gregory, drooling on her sleeve.

"We'll start with this. It's based on your mother's formula." He pulled a chip from the tricorder and gave it to Deanna. "Bring Amy in next week and we'll see if she's responding to it. This will still take time, but your mother's ingredients have given us a head start. Once we have an accurate map of which proteins she's having difficulty with, we can begin to address the problem and hopefully cure it."

"Eeee-weee," Amy cried, swinging her arm and flinging saliva. Deanna picked her up from the biobed to keep her from toppling off.

"Is there going to be a cure?"

"It's one of the few legal applications of genetic modification. Most hybrids born naturally have no problems, or a simpler problem such as an allergic reaction to a single food item. In a case like Amy's, when the problem is in the balance of digestive enzymes secreted and the interaction between them and the chemical structure of the food, it's usually something that can be addressed through first mapping the faults then matching them to the chromosomes responsible."

"Then why did I not have to go through genetic therapy?"

Gregory put his finger in Amy's hand and let her investigate his fingernail. "It may be that you simply grew out of it. The formula was prescribed by a specialist, you said, and the ingredients are not wildly different from those of other formulas we have tried. The problem could easily have corrected itself when the gland responsible for whatever enzyme imbalance existed finished developing. It's really just good luck that the formula also helped Amy."

"It's certainly a relief to not have her fussing constantly." Deanna brushed Amy's hair out of her eyes.

"I imagine so. Perhaps you will cease feeling guilty about leaving her with a sitter."

She eyed Gregory. "And how would you know anything about that?"

"Just a guess. I believe I heard you mention your mother would only be here for three weeks -- six weeks ago."

"She won't be around much longer. Just a few more days," Deanna said, heading for the door.

Lwaxana had a set of flash cards out and was quizzing Yves on numbers when Deanna arrived. "And what did the doctor say," Lwaxana asked. Yves slid off the couch and ran at his mother, hugging her leg and tugging on Amy's foot before slipping past to his room. Fidele barked a welcome.

"That it was a short cut to a real solution. Go get the targ," she said, putting Amy on the floor. The baby crawled for the easy chair, pulled herself up, wrapped her fingers around the targ's tail, and yanked it to the floor, laughing in triumph.

"A short cut? It worked wonders for you!"

"Amy has a different problem than I did. Mine corrected itself, hers won't. It's temporary relief for everyone, however, so it's more than welcome."

Lwaxana frowned. "I have to question the competency of your doctor! We should take her to a specialist. On Betazed."

Deanna bit her lower lip and regrouped before speaking. "We may still do that, but in the meantime -- "

"It's just a little tummy trouble. If you took her to Dr. Zeil, he would tell you the same -- she'll probably grow right out of it just like you did, and then you'll see this doctor of yours is hopelessly complicating things."

"She's not like me, Mother."

"Well, of course not! You married a human -- "

" -- like Wyatt," Deanna flung back, finally turning loose some of the anger she'd bottled up for weeks. "You didn't care then, why is it an issue now?"

Lwaxana gaped at her. "That was to honor an agreement, one I didn't think the Millers would ever expect us to -- "

"The only reason it's an issue now is that it affects one of your grandchildren. You didn't even think of it then!"

"I could hardly help thinking of it!" Lwaxana jumped to her feet. In mid-thought, she did a visible double-take and deflated, dropping her arms to her sides. "Well, I see I won't be able to stay on board any longer. It's obvious you've progressed -- here's another symptom. Don't worry about me, Little One, it's entirely instinctual for you to perceive me as competition, it's just time for me to stop spending so much time in your home."

Deanna almost contradicted her, but, foreseeing an endless turmoil and weighing it against its alternative -- her mother on her way back to Betazed -- she straightened and composed a different answer. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mother, and I don't know that I care," she said, holding her voice at a taut, even seethe.

Now Lwaxana brought her hands together and adopted a patronizing stance. "That's all right, dear. I'm going to my rooms and have Homn pack my things while you calm down. If you have your bridge friends locate a transport, if there's one handy -- "

"I'll loan you a pilot and a shuttle to meet it." Maintaining the anger wasn't hard; this side of her mother always upset her. And she wondered if the Phase weren't contributing to it, after all, since as she indulged it she felt such vicious pleasure in responding to her mother this way.

Lwaxana swooped down on Amy, distracting her from the beginnings of a fuss. "Now, you shouldn't worry, Amia, your mama's just upset, it's nothing to do with you." She kissed Amy and left her on the floor, departing in a flutter of skirts.

"Maman?" Yves stood in his bedroom door, his lip trembling and fear in his eyes. Fidele bumped his head against the boy's arm.

"It's all right, petit. How would you like to see Guinan? I'll bet she has some fresh cookies just for you."

~^~^~^~^~

 

The return trip was shorter, but not by much. Caroline dropped them off at the station and seemed to have recovered, but Beverly was glad that Sharon had ridden along to be with her on the trip home. When they reached McKinley an hour later, luck provided a ten-minute window to board a transport that would return them to the starbase. Jean-Luc fell asleep in his seat, leaving Beverly to read.

The transport made more stops than the first one, and the third docking woke Jean-Luc with the ship-wide shudder when the umbilical connected. "What? They're boarding?" he muttered, sitting up.

"And getting off. What are you dreaming about?"

He yawned and stretched, glancing around. With his rumpled white shirt and sleep-blurred eyes, he didn't seem deserving of the few double-takes and awed stares he'd gotten from people passing through this section of seats. Just a tired man with a -- well. That was to be expected, she supposed. Covering her smile with her hand, she held up her padd and studied the results of a clinical trial on a cure for an obscure disease that only affected Ferengi. She glanced at him out the corner of her eye when no sudden movement to cover his obvious erection occurred, and found he'd dropped off again. He'd even fallen to one side with his head almost touching the back of the next chair.

She touched his forehead. Since that was inconclusive, she bent to open her bag. Her medical tricorder revealed little out of the ordinary, just a slightly-elevated temperature. He woke again easily when she grabbed his shoulder.

"How are you feeling?"

He looked at her as if she'd asked him to dance. "Fine. Why?"

"You have a slight temperature. And you fell asleep as if I tranquilized you."

"It's nothing, Beverly."

"I have a tricorder and you have denial. Want to make a bet? Let's find sickbay and deal with this."

He sighed and bent to reach the bag at his feet. The padd he handed her proved to contain a variety of documents on Betazoid mood-affective conditions, most of them about the Phase.

"So you're in Phase, is that what you're saying?"

He glared. "I think you know what I'm saying."

"Isn't she a little young?"

"The average age at onset is fifty. The youngest documented case happened at twenty-eight."

She scrolled through the first article. 'Bonded Pair Dynamics During Phase' claimed that both partners reacted when the female began her phasing, but the cases cited were all Betazoid-Betazoid pairs. The second article discussed human-Betazoid pairs, but not bonded ones, and reported no real influence on the human, other than a not-unexpected state of bliss. The third made the bold claim that though there were cases of humans bonding with telepaths, none of them reacted physically to the condition of the telepath in the bond, and mentioned Betazoids, Vulcans, and Deltans.

"Something tells me you should correct some of the misinformation being published about humans in bonds," she said, giving him the padd.

"Something tells me that won't happen." He dropped it in the general vicinity of his bag.

Beverly glanced around. Though people were going by in the corridor, they weren't coming into the compartment. "So you're getting sleep now because you know you won't when you get back?"

"I'm tired. I haven't slept more than four hours in the past two days, let alone the weeks of constantly being awakened by a fussy baby."

"Are a fever and this persistent uneasiness you told me about the only symptoms you've had so far?"

He sat up straighter and looked her in the eye. "She's not Vulcan," he said with less ire than she expected from his expression. "Neither one of us will suddenly behave irrationally. The Phase isn't like that, especially when a bond is involved."

"You have a handful of articles and the antics of Lwaxana Troi to go on, and now you're an authority? I realize this is probably one of those things you'd like to remain private, but you really should consult a doctor if you have a fever."

"All right, what do _you_ think will happen next? Because unless I'm mistaken she's been in Phase for several weeks."

"That's not the way it works. Of course there are pre-Phase symptoms. The Phase itself only lasts a week or two."

Three people came in and sat across from them. Beverly smiled and went back to her reading, and Jean-Luc closed his bag after returning the padd and taking out an actual book.

The sixth stop was theirs, and once clear of the crowds around the docking area, she had trouble keeping up with him. "I think what happens next is you run madly through the damned starbase," she called, tired of trying to match him stride for stride.

Four steps it took him to connect it to their interrupted conversation, and he slowed. "Very funny."

"Seriously, why are you running?"

"I just want to get through the base."

"It really bothers you that you're recognizable, doesn't it?"

At least he didn't run off again, though she was breathing hard when they finally got to the shuttle. He disappeared into the head, providing another explanation for the rush. She started preliminary takeoff procedures and contacted the starbase flight control for clearance. By the time he got to the cockpit, she had approval and a waiting period of eighteen minutes.

"Turn that chair around here," she ordered, pulling the medkit into her lap. She'd taken it out of the locker on her way to the cockpit. "Fever isn't a symptom of Phase, no matter how bonded you are."

"What is it, then?"

"Probably something you picked up on the way to Earth." He watched her while she worked, hands at rest in his lap, and it reminded her of when he was a more regular patient under her care. The tricorder confirmed her initial readings. Selecting a vial from the kit, she pushed it into the hypo and pressed the nozzle against his arm. "It's a virus, nothing unusual or dangerous. You should be fine by the time you pick up the baby."

"That's a relief." He turned to study the shuttle controls, then the sensor readouts at his right hand. "Do you ever miss the _Enterprise_?"

"I miss the people. It was home for a long time. I was a little sad to hear Geordi had moved on."

"He deserved the promotion, and I think he's happy with his new position. It gives him more regular hours and more time to write." Jean-Luc chuckled. "He's gotten much better at writing since he started."

"Do you miss it?"

He seemed lost in thought for a bit. "There were aspects of it that I will always miss."

They sat quietly, thinking, until the eighteen minutes passed and control gave them a go. The shuttle slid into space. They rose and turned, passing over larger vessels, including an Intrepid-class with a number one digit longer than she was accustomed to, and Beverly sagged back in her seat. The stars shifted when Jean-Luc sent them into warp, and blurred when tears gathered in her eyes.

"I suppose it's the same old story," she whispered. "The galaxy is all things new and wonderful, until you realize that it was never the galaxy at all -- the newness was all yours. And eventually, it starts to sink in that it's never going to be new again."

"Until you have children and rediscover the wonder that is found in shiny objects and big green sticky globs of mucous."

She rolled her head to the right, and found him watching her with a tired smile. "Are you suggesting that I have more children?"

"It's the only newness I've found. Unless you'd like to hear about the exquisite and marvelous things that happen when you're trapped in a falling building, handed over to aliens with no mouths, and suffering from amnesia, among other things?"

"Tell me again about the mucous."

"Wise choice." He tapped on the arm rest, pretending deep and sober thought. "It's sticky. Babies appear to manufacture it by the kilo."

"That's what I've suspected all along. What about the rumors I've heard, about little fingers learning how to pull off a diaper and smear its contents around?"

"Completely true. It makes you want to tear your hair out." He paused, again as if thinking. "It's a good thing I've circumvented that. Hair-tearing sounds painful."

She contemplated his face, thinking again about what little she knew of last year's mission on which he'd been injured. Deanna had told her about the medical leave. Its duration implied serious injuries. There was something different about him now, and it was more than the changes Caroline had recognized -- those were a given, really, considering everything he'd been through.

"Was it Borg-bad, last year?"

The desolation added years to his face. She didn't need a verbal answer, but he said, "Almost."

"But you didn't despair. You're still in command and moving on."

He didn't answer.

Two hours of silence crept by. She read, he read, she thought about napping, he napped. She replicated two bowls of soup and he ate without comment. They sat again in the cockpit with at least another hour to go.

"Moving on is all we can do," he murmured.

"I suppose."

"Sometimes it's the only option other than death."

"I have to wonder what a counselor would make of that statement."

"I thought she would move on," he continued, as if she hadn't said a thing. "She could have been forgiven for thinking I would never recover. . . ."

"Jean-Luc?"

"I thought that if I became ill, mentally deficient -- I expected her to move on. I expected her to understand that I would want that for her and the children." The words sounded as though he dragged them across hot sand; she expected tears but his eyes were dry, just filled with distant pain, echoed in the twist of his mouth.

"I don't understand," she whispered, though she thought she did.

"Caroline and I spoke briefly a few months before Kemp died. She was so cheerful. . . . She said he was asleep, and that she'd have him call me later. But he didn't call -- I had to try again. I don't think he was asleep. I thought she was protecting Kemp, lying to hide his dementia from the world, but I was wrong. It was herself she protected, from the hopelessness. And now she's left with no way of protecting herself from losing him."

"And so you're depressed because you know Deanna would take care of you until the bitter end, if you develop some hideous disease that puts you in the same state as Kemp? Well, it's a damn good thing Deanna's in Phase, that's all I can say. It sounds like you could use some distraction."

He inhaled as if gathering up all his patience and control to manage a response. "I don't need distraction," he said, on the verge of something much longer. She headed him off.

"When we were up there on that cliff, Caroline almost followed Kemper over the edge -- if Sharon and I hadn't caught her she might have gone. I remember being on the edge of my own abyss, facing life without Jack. I can understand why Caroline felt like going with Kemp, but she's got the rest of her life -- it's entirely possible she'll find someone to love her again. And I think when she's over the darkest part of the mourning, she'll look back at all her efforts to care for Kemp and be glad she hung in there with him. I'm sure she didn't feel a great deal of affection when he forgot who she was and lost his temper for no reason, but she made a promise and kept it. Even if he never was able to appreciate that, she benefitted from it."

He thought she was mad, from the look on his face. It was making him think instead of lecture, however, and this was good.

"There are also those who have to put their spouse in a nursing facility because they can't manage proper care for them. But it's an individual decision, and no one can make it for anyone else -- it's a personal choice. You can't presume to choose what Deanna should do with you, if you turn into a doddering old man hobbling around goosing young women and calling random red alerts. Whatever she does, she'll do it because she loves you enough to want what's best for you."

He winced, but sat back in the chair. Crisis averted. "You have a point."

"Of course I do. You're lucky I was here. I'd hate to see what would have happened if you'd worked yourself into a real depression, then arrived home to the mother-in-law, the fussy baby, the mud-obsessed little boy, and the phasing wife."

"Nice, how you prevented then instigated depression. As if I could do anything about the wife with the mother-in-law around."

Beverly went for something to drink, and brought him a cup of tea as well. He thanked her. The silence returned, and she didn't mind -- she considered what he'd said, what she had been thinking since Kemp's ashes had been swept away by the wind, and decided that her answer to his descent into misery had been just as applicable to herself. It had always been love, in one form or another, that kept her going. Though there had been dark periods, it'd all worked out well enough.

"Jean-Luc?"

"Hm?" At least he didn't have doom written all over his face again when he looked up, just deep thoughts.

"There's something I've been meaning to tell you."

He froze with the cup at his lips, raising his eyebrows.

"Thank you," she exclaimed, leaning across the cockpit to grip his arm. "For everything."

"You're welcome." He sipped, put his cup on the saucer balanced on navigation, and smiled back at her. "I never would have made it without you."

"I know."

He snorted. "Of course."

"Leann would have killed you, if I'd let you go out the door with that bunch of flowers Jack picked up for you to give her. She was allergic to mums, and he knew it."

"How did he know that?"

"He knew her when they were kids, remember?"

"No." He picked up cup and saucer. "There are a lot of details I don't remember. The less important ones, I hope."

"I keep thinking of Jack, when I go to one of these funerals."

"Well, you'll only have one more to suffer through."

She exhaled, letting her head drift forward and down, eyes closed. "Don't say that. You can't know that."

"I suppose not. It's interesting, I had friends at the Academy who are still alive, yet those I made while on _Stargazer_ are all dead."

"Don't you feel just a little morbid, thinking like that?" She set aside her empty cup and stretched her arms over her head. The cockpit was enough to make anyone feel claustrophobic after a few hours.

"Is it morbid to think of death and dying after you've been to a funeral? Or after you've had a near-death experience?"

Interesting that he threw that in as well. She wondered again about last year's medical leave and decided not to pursue it. "Want a refill?"

"No, thank you."

When she came back from the replicator, she put her tea on a console. "You've gotten quite comfortable with having small children around."

"Almost civilized, am I?"

Beverly rolled her eyes. "I wasn't criticizing. I think it's wonderful how things turned out for you."

"I've been quite pleased with it myself, although I've often wondered if I wouldn't wake up and find it was all a dream."

"I suppose, after all you've been through, that might be a worry." She glanced at him in the silence that followed. "Jean-Luc?"

"Nothing." He took his empty cup and left. Long moments later, he returned to sit upright and facing forward.

"I didn't mean to pry into a touchy subject," she said.

He sighed and looked away from her. She took that to be a request for silence and settled deeper in the seat, closing her eyes. In the quiet she nearly fell asleep.

"Can I ask you a question?"

Beverly wondered what he'd do if she just reached over and shook him. "You just did, so I guess you can," she said, sitting up and turning her chair. He had his elbow propped on the left arm rest and his chin in his hand.

"Did you and Jack ever talk about what might happen? The dangers of Starfleet?"

"I don't remember." She frowned, partly at him for asking. "I suppose we must have. He did make some provisions for it -- the message he left for Wesley, and a will. I made out a will also."

"Any provisions for disability? As rare as it is now, it's possible."

"You mean, if something were to happen in the line of duty that left him disabled?" She studied his face, looking for clues, and the lack of any told her enough. "Jean-Luc, what happened to you last year?"

He shook his head, his attention on navigation. She thought he wouldn't answer; he surprised her. "I was injured, influenced by telepaths, amnesia-stricken and nearly caused the end of her career."

"How would that cause -- do you mean because she would have quit to take care of you?"

"I went to an admiral and complained because the mission had been taken out of my control. If he had believed me, it would have ended her career. They didn't, declared me unfit instead. If not for the intervention of another telepath, I might not have recovered."

"But you did recover."

He stared at nothing. All the glimpses of pain over the past two days had been previews of his expression now.

Beverly sighed noisily. When he didn't react, she said, "You have an unwavering dedication to agonizing over things like this. I hope you haven't been doing this around Deanna. Sounds like she already has -- "

His hand had gone white-knuckled on the arm rest. She gaped, uncertain of what to do now -- was he going to lash out at her? He leaned over, fighting it every centimeter, and she wondered if the injection had really worked, or if the virus had made him nauseous. But he straightened again momentarily and inhaled, regaining control with the movement.

"It's easy to make a decision with full knowledge of the possibilities, Beverly. I did know what could happen when I married her -- now I have an inkling of what she might be forced to endure if I did fall victim to dementia. I know what it did to her for a few weeks. I know what it did to Caroline after two years."

"You don't know that it will happen to you at all! Do you know how unlikely it is?" She meant it with all sincerity, of course, believing that it never would happen to him, but within seconds of exclaiming over its unlikelihood, she remembered and wanted to crawl under her chair.

"I need you to verify that." He finally met her eyes, losing some of the angst as determination set in. "I'd like you to check to see if I really am predisposed to irumodic syndrome."

She shook herself free of shock a moment later to reach for the medkit still on the floor beneath her seat. He had refused that confirmation after his adventure through time and space with Q, even though he'd gone to great lengths to inform them all of their own possibilities. He'd refused it at every physical thereafter when she'd offered it, thinking he would eventually stop brooding and do the rational thing, rule it out and be done with it. The test wasn't standard procedure; irumodic was rare even among those predisposed to it, and usually didn't set in until the nineties or later when it did occur.

He didn't move while she ran the tricorder, just looked at her, eyes burning with defiance and fear. She took the time to cycle through two full scans, verifying the conclusion. "I hate to say I told you so, but I did," she announced, shutting the tricorder and sliding the sensor unit into its slot before dropping it back in the bag. "That genetic predisposition you supposedly had is as fictitious as everything else about Q's imaginary future."

He closed his eyes. When he opened them, he nodded, then smiled. "Not everything turned out to be fictitious."

"Really? Let's see -- we didn't divorce. Deanna's still alive. Worf and Will are on good terms, the last I heard. The 1701-D is gone. What am I leaving out that actually came true?"

"Geordi wrote a book."

"And how do you know you telling him about that didn't give him the idea to do it in the first place?" She gestured as if brushing his paranoia aside. "Where were the kids in the scenario? What about Tom?"

"You were just as stubborn," he said, the pleased smile turning mischievous. "And you were a captain. I hope you have that opportunity, Beverly. You would wear it well."

"I don't know how that would work. Tom wouldn't fit into that situation."

"Unless he made himself fit in, and you have no way of knowing how that might be possible."

"It's nice to see that you can return to incurable optimism so rapidly, after your brief stay in full-blown paranoia." She leaned across the space between their chairs to swat his arm. "And it's good to know you'll be around for a few decades, for when I need someone to drink tea with."

He chuckled, his elbow hanging over the arm rest -- his body language had gone from deckplate-rigid to relaxed, just like that. What a difference a negative result could make. She almost asked him why he hadn't just asked his own CMO to do it sooner, but as soon as she thought of it she realized the answer. He wanted time to deal with it before he had to tell Deanna.

"Beverly?"

She faked a smile and shook her head. He raised an eyebrow, staring. "It's nothing, Jean-Luc. Nothing at all."

"Is it?"

"You and Tom have one thing in common. You're both prone to trying to protect as much as you can. You know she's strong enough to handle it, but you still try to shield her from pain."

"And that upsets you?" His attention went to navigation, as a new indicator flashed. "I know we can't keep heartache and pain out of our lives entirely, but I have to try."

"Most people view marriage as a joint endeavor, sharing any burdens that come up."

"Yes, but I doubt they had an empath in mind. That tends to magnify the stress. It looks like we've found them." As he spoke, he dropped the shuttle to impulse. The _Enterprise_ appeared in the distance, a tiny fleck of light until he keyed in a command to increase magnification. Beverly turned to communications.

The minute they landed in the main shuttle bay, he powered down and practically leaped for the exit. Beverly took an extra minute to discard her tea cup.

Deanna had come to greet them, of course, and when she finally pulled free of her husband's embrace, Beverly blinked and thought of getting her tricorder. Had to be hormones. Such a glow normally appeared on a pregnant woman, and so far as Beverly knew Deanna wasn't.

"You're just in time for dinner," Deanna exclaimed, beaming at them.

"I don't think I'll stay. I'd really like to get home myself," Beverly said.

"Say hello to Tom for us," Jean-Luc said. "And give Lora a hug."

She passed his bag out the door and sealed up the shuttle. Ten minutes later she was at warp, on autopilot, and opening a channel.

"Verly," Tom cried, dropping into his desk chair and leaning toward the screen. Lora appeared behind him, draping herself over his shoulders and grinning.

"Did you get me a tiki thing?"

"Sorry, no tiki. We were pressed for time. Your Uncle Luc and Aunt Dee said hi, by the way. Give me a minute to talk to your dad, okay?"

Lora rolled her eyes but vanished from view. Tom shot a sideways glance after her and sobered. "Everything all right?"

"I hope so. Look. . . I'm sorry I lost my temper. You were worried about me flying alone across all that open space, and given where the ship is, that's a valid concern. I shouldn't have taken it as selfishness."

He crossed his arms on the desk and leaned, not looking at her. "I wasn't exactly understanding, either. I guess I didn't see how important it was for you to go."

"You never told me Cat set you up with Sharon Kemper."

His eyes flicked up to meet hers, but he said nothing.

"Although it doesn't sound like it was a very good match -- she had nothing to say about it, either. It doesn't matter. I don't get along with her, but I'm glad she was there. Caroline needs her, I think."

"Well." He stroked his mustache with the back of his thumb. "I'm glad you're on the way home. We missed you."

"I missed you, too." She blinked away a tear, smiling through subspace at him, noticing the gray in his hair anew. "I love you."

~^~^~^~^~

 

"You were supposed to call Tom."

"What for?"

"Something about Jack."

"He can ask Beverly. A little lower?"

"I have a feeling it was all his imagination, anyway. Something about Sharon Kemper having a child and blaming him."

"Jack, or Tom?"

"Well, after she figured out it wasn't Tom, she said it must be Jack. I think. Anyway, Tom was worried that if Beverly found out it would spoil all those good memories of Jack."

Jean-Luc opened one eye. All he could see was the flickering candle over the landscape of the pillow. Their quarters were otherwise dark, and quiet. Deanna pushed her fingertips along his shoulder blades, her thumbs doing most of the work.

"Not possible. That was Jack O'Reilly."

"I thought it would be someone else. It's interesting how protective he can be, even in things he can't do a thing about."

"Mm."

"Is everything all right?" She stopped the massage and leaned, her weight on her palms, which rested on his shoulders. Her lips brushed the back of his head.

"Better than all right. Thank you."

She rested her nose against his ear, then slid off him and the bed. Turning his head, he watched her vanish into the bathroom. He rolled on his back and blew out the candle.

She found him again in the dark easily, their hands meeting first; he steadied her as she climbed into bed and descended into his arms. Her skin, though cool to the first touch, warmed quickly. Closing his eyes as their mouths met, he smiled, satisfied through and through to be home, to be whole, and to have Deanna purring at his touch.

A piercing shriek from the monitor that provided a one-way link to the nursery made them both jump. He could tell when her attention left him, wandering off to assess their daughter's condition, and when it returned to him fully he relaxed. Deanna kissed him again, but as she began to change position, a wailing and a series of sobs intervened.

She moved off, asking for the lights, and snatched her robe from the back of a chair. Jean-Luc moved slower in pulling on a pair of pants and followed her through the living room. The nursery, dimly-lit by a night light, was full of dancing shadows and gleaming things. Amy clung to the rail of her crib, standing with a hand outstretched, her face red and wet with tears.

Deanna murmured something in Betazoid; he could only make out 'Amia,' the Betazoid sound-alike for Amy. When she caressed the child's head and bent to kiss her, the tenderness in her face brought him such pain that he couldn't breathe. She looked at him, still bending with her hand cradling Amy's head, and Amy sniffled and turned her wide, black eyes to him as well.

"Pa," she said, a tiny smile making a brief appearance before she wobbled and plopped down on the mattress.

He smiled, reached for her, and she tried to use his fingers to pull herself up again. "You need to sleep, petite ami. So you can grow up and be strong, like Maman." He drew his thumb over her cheek. He knew Deanna studied him with sudden concern, and that she questioned his mood and his words. But she took his free hand, placed her head against his shoulder, and let Amy examine her fingernails.

At length she whispered, "I'm sorry about your friend."

"The sun sets for all, some day. Sooner for some than others."

"She's almost asleep." Amy had curled up on her side, her fingers still wrapped around Deanna's thumb. She made no fuss when they backed away from the crib, or when they left the room. Deanna hovered at the door briefly; he got as far as their bedroom before stopping to wait. She smiled when she turned and saw him holding out a hand. Crossing the living room, she came past the hand into his arms.

"If Phase is nature's way of pushing Betazoid women to procreate, and you thwart it with birth control, what happens?"

"I thought you'd read all about it on your trip. How did you guess it was Phase, anyway?"

He closed the bedroom door. "Your mother broadly hinted at it while trying to swindle me into not going to the funeral. The hinting is an interesting deviation from her usual tactic of bluntly-stated opinion, I must say."

"Jean," she chided, tugging at his pants.

"You didn't answer the question."

"If you read the articles, you already know."

"I didn't read all of them. Hardly any, in fact -- it was a long trip and I was exhausted, and trying to function in a different time zone didn't help."

She tilted her head, sly and more interested in him than the question. "I'll probably stay in Phase for another week or so."

"And after that? Does it have a permanent effect?"

"Probably a deepening of the bond. Usually an increased sexual appetite."

"Ah. Something like it was before the children."

She backed away from the door, bringing him along. "Something like. Except, until it's passed, I have less control over the end result. My hormones are interfering with birth control." She swung him around and pushed him down on the bed.

"So what can we do?"

She stopped, considering it while kneeling on the bed next to him, her robe open and half-off her shoulders. "Do you want more children?"

"I. . . haven't thought about it. Do you?"

"Not now. Especially now -- the Phase works hard to do what it does, and often that includes releasing multiple eggs. Many Betazoid siblings are actually fraternal twins. Or triplets."

"Oh. Well. I don't know." He imagined juggling three babies, and Amy, and Yves.

"If you didn't want any more children, you could solve the problem with a little surgery." She ran her hand down his stomach, barely touching the skin. "Why do you cringe inside when I say that?"

"If I did want more children later, then what?"

"There are other options, some less effective than others. All of them with some margin of error possible."

"What happens if a woman goes into Phase but her husband has a sudden disinterest in. . . ." He didn't get to finish. She stared, disapproving and stern. "I see."

"I suppose I could always find another concubine," she said, raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms. He couldn't respond to it. At once she reached for him with tears in her eyes. "I didn't mean that, Jean."

"I know. I'm not feeling very light-hearted at the moment, that's all. This morning -- " He smiled grimly, trying to count hours and match time zones. "When I came out for breakfast, Caroline was telling Beverly how she wished she'd tried to have children sooner."

"I'm not Caroline." She took his head in her hands and glared. "You know better."

"What I'm trying to get at is that the situation reminded me -- the choices we're making about children, they affect you more than they do me. I should defer to your judgement. I've tried to keep it that way and you keep putting it back on me."

It was only making her more angry, and he realized his mistake too late. Trying to discuss this sort of thing in any depth when she was hormonal had backfired before, and now she was in Phase -- what did he expect?

"But all of that is unimportant," he continued. "All we really need at the moment is something temporary, right? Something like a -- "

She was off the bed in a flare of her robe and out the door. He sighed. At least now he could catch up on sleep. He closed his eyes, but reopened them at the sound of the door closing again. She leaped on the bed, crawled up, threw off the robe, and flourished a red disk.

"Like a condom?"

The Phase, indeed.


End file.
